


The not-quite lady and her not-quite knight

by hypatheticallyspeaking



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: F/M, Knight Keith, Lady Pidge, essentially a princess and knight AU, most people make an appearance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 16:48:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16896333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypatheticallyspeaking/pseuds/hypatheticallyspeaking
Summary: Her eyes narrow as she observes his profile. She feels as though he’s seen him before, but he looks like a knight from one of those romantic ballads the serving women would whisper about: dark hair and striking eyes. A faint flush tinges her cheeks as she brushes that thought away—he is not a knight. Not one that she recognizes, anyway.“I never got your name,” she states, knowing that calling him stranger won’t work for long.“Keith,” he replies, “What about you?”“Pidge,” she says, “Pidge Gunderson.” The lie comes easily now.





	The not-quite lady and her not-quite knight

**Author's Note:**

> This was my submission for Carnations: A Charity Pidge Zine.  
> I figured it was time to publish this on AO3, especially since I haven't posted anything here in over a year. Whoops.

“C’mon, stupid fire!” a high-pitched voice whispers, the faint echo muffled by the trees and underbrush. She repeats the striking action until an ember, bright and glowing, appears in the kindling, and a small wisp of smoke begins to curl up into the clear autumn sky. Leaning forward, she carefully breathes life into the fire, watching as flickers of flames begin to consume the twigs she adds. In truth, she has become more adept at survival skills, and a prideful grin tugs at the corner of her lips.

A rustle in the trees nearby draws her attention, and she glances over to see a familiar leather-armor clad man making his way over. “Don’t forget to put the fire starters back in my bag.” He has more firewood in his arms, and he deposits it out of reach of the still-growing fire.

“Of course.” She has been traveling with this man for about a week, but he seems kind enough. She’s not sure how long her guise of a peasant boy will last, but she’s grateful for the company.

She stretches out, finding a comfortable location on the ground. The sun wanes overhead, dipping below the tree line and painting the sky a faint orange hue. Her eyes follow the strange not-knight, watching as he puts some recently hunted creatures over the fire. Two months ago, she would have refused such food; now, she welcomes nearly any form of sustenance.

They sit in silence, listening to the crackling fire and rustling wildlife. Chittering squirrels and birds draw her focus towards the sky; the sounds of summer cicadas on their last few weeks of life, and a faint breeze rustling the trees’ leaves. The smell of food lingers in the air, and she unwraps the final piece of bread she had stowed away. The temptation to ration it even more fades as she turns over the semi-stale piece in her hands. She really ought to be careful about spending the remaining silver she has.

Breaking it into two pieces, she hands one to him. “Here,” she says, and he hesitates. “Go on, take it. It’ll go bad otherwise.”

“Thanks.”

In exchange, he hands her some of what he’d been cooking over the fire. Her eyes narrow as she observes his profile. She feels as though he’s seen him before, but he looks like a knight from one of those romantic ballads the serving women would whisper about: dark hair and striking eyes. A faint flush tinges her cheeks as she brushes that thought away—he is not a knight. Not one that she recognizes, anyway.

“I never got your name,” she states, knowing that calling him stranger won’t work for long.

“Keith,” he replies, “What about you?”

“Pidge,” she says, “Pidge Gunderson.” The lie comes easily now.

“Huh,” he says in response. “Pidge Gunderson.”

She nods.

“Are you sure you don’t mean Lady Katherine Holt?”

Her left hand drops to one of the daggers on her belt, just out of his line of vision. “Hah, you think I’m from a noble house?” Her heart beats heavy in her chest, and the blood rushing through her veins leaves her tongue heavier than lead.

“Well, since the Lord and first son are gone, and you’re the only one with the same face…” he trails off, taking another bite of food. “I’ve seen the Ladies of that house once. A while ago, but I remember faces. You look exactly like her.”

She bites back the retort of they’re not gone, instead gripping tighter to her dagger. “Well that’s insulting, calling me a girl.” Her heart beats rapidly, and her entire body is tensing, telling her to make a decision on whether to attack or flee.

He finally looks up from the fire, locking eyes with her. It sends a chill down her spine. “Relax. Everyone else thinks you vanished. There’d be no point in killing you. Not that I wanted to anyway.”

“And how do I know you won’t kill me in my sleep?”

Keith scowls at the thought. “I may be a sell-sword, but I _do_ have morals.”

She arches an eyebrow, her still defensive stance betraying her disbelief.

“You’d be worth more if I brought you back to your mother than if I were to kill you.”

“You’re in it for the money?” Somehow, she doesn’t feel as though that’s the truth.

“As far as you know.” He sighs. “Look. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not going to kill you. Just eat your food and be happy that you found someone whose interests seem to align with yours. It doesn’t happen much.”

Relaxing the hand on her dagger, Pidge asks, “What do you mean?”

“Look, you’re not the only one trying to figure out what happened to that ship.” He points at the food. “Eat. I want to know what you know.”

She doesn’t smile, but she tucks in to the food, ignoring the charred taste as well as the stale texture of the bread. He may be abrupt, but she understands him a bit more. If anything, she’s grateful that there’s someone else who thinks that something went awry that day over a year ago.

She’s safe for now.

*

They had crossed into the Lionlands after a month of traveling on foot. The Lionlands of Arus, known for mountainous forests and cave-littered streambeds, provides the toughest terrain. A temperate climate preferable to the sweltering summer sun does nothing to prevent the nightly chill that seeps into her bones or the omnipresent ache of her feet. She misses her horses, even the jolting wooden carriages that terrified her as a child.

The road they had been following for the past several weeks declines into a small town, bustling with Arusians and a few people clearly from neighboring countries. It is more than a village, with slanted buildings resting up against one another and children running about.

“Supper! Children, come on!” A woman’s voice causes the group to disperse. Most of them scamper away to their respective homes, but a handful follow the woman into a dimly illuminated building.

Keith extends a hand for her. “A tavern sound good?”

Pidge nods numbly, looping her hand through his elbow out of habit. “Sounds lovely.” He tenses, and she quickly releases the crook of his arm. “Sorry.” After all, it would be strange for a sell-sword to walk in with a grubby boy on his arm.

“Don’t worry about it, Pidge,” he says as he trains his focus on the tavern. “You’re probably hungry.”

She lets him walk ahead as she kicks at some stones on the ground. How could she have been so _foolish_? He isn’t even a noble, but she slipped back into that action after months of living in dirt and sleeping on pine-needle beds. Her heart flutters as she sees him glance back, a look of concern on his face. Kicking once more in an attempt to force these fledgling feelings out of her body, she sends a rock skittering across the ground. “I’m coming, geez.”

The tavern is a small building, actually attached to the town’s small inn. The prospect of an actual room, a roof over her head, makes the knots in her back ache even more. Fresh baked bread and stew rest on the tables, empty plates and wooden bowls clatter in the hands of a serving woman—the same one from earlier—who scoops up the dishes into her arms.

“Stew’s two coppers, ale’s one, and bread comes with the stew.” She flashes a smile, “I’ll be back.”

Pidge’s brow furrows as she stares at the young woman. Her hair is long and sweeping, starlight when the orange candlelit glow catches it. Words lay heavy on her tongue: there’s a survivor from Altea, living right under the noses of the Galra. She takes a seat opposite Keith, suppressing a snort. It’s good to see that Zarkon’s power-hungry advances haven’t destroyed the Altean bloodline in its entirety.

“Hey, Pidge?” She hums, grinning to herself. “What’s so funny?”

There’s a pair of soldiers at a nearby table, guffawing about some recent run-ins with soldiers from rebels—soldiers who had pledged their allegiance to _her family_ —and the emotion falls from her face. She casts a sidelong glance at the soldiers. They’re still wearing their improperly sized armor, and their conversation turns rowdy, likely a side effect from the half-dozen tankards of ale split between the two of them.

She opens her mouth to respond when the serving-woman stops by their table. “What would you like?” Her accent reminds Pidge of the few nobles from Altea who had visited her family before the subjugation began. Her skin tone is deep, just like the one portrait of the late royal family, and her silvery hair is a sign. Behind the tavern’s bar, the former Altean King’s steward, an aging man whose shockingly orange hair is unforgettable, only confirms her suspicion.

“Stew and ale for the both of us,” Keith declares, fishing a silver piece out of his money pouch.

“Thank you,” she says, pocketing the coin.

The woman’s about to turn and leave when Pidge pipes up, “Any chance there’s a spare room, miss?”

“I’ll check.”

They end up taking a room for a few days; despite Keith’s initial insistence that they not share, Pidge convinced him that it would be more suspicious if the kid traveling with him got his own room. The thought of having a real bed, even if it’s just straw and she needs to share, supersedes any qualms she has.

It is simple to bond with the other workers in the tavern-inn combination. The young woman, to Pidge’s joy, remains the rightful ruler of the land by birthright. Her late father’s most loyal advisor swept her away from the castle before the siege begun, and she escaped the bloodshed that claimed her parents’ lives; he purchased the inn and tavern, running it while simultaneously aiding the rebel forces. The cook, Hunk, is an excellent smith when he isn’t cooking meals for the patrons. Lance, the town guard, is a constant presence at the tavern, and they all fall into an easy rhythm.

It’s like having a family again, she thinks as she watches them playfully banter. Some of Lance’s attempts at humor pass over Keith’s head, and she wonders if the smile that passes over his face is genuine compared to his usual stoic demeanor. She falls into step with Hunk, discussing how to improve the world as he busies himself with cooking meals for the tavern or tinkering with new weapons. It gives her opportunities to work on her own design for female weapons and armor.

Days turn to weeks, weeks stretch to a month, and it feels like she’s losing Keith. He’s more reserved now, spending time loitering about the inn or training in the Lionlands’ secluded forests at the oddest hours. She misses his presence, the comfort of being around him when she draws parallels between her family and this found one. Hunk reminds her of her older brother, of Matthew’s overwhelming positivity and support. Lance is like the younger sibling she never had, running wild when responsibility is not the priority. Allura—the rightful heir to the throne—reminds Katie of her mother; hardworking and dedicated, thriving in a world that threatens to break her. Coran fulfills the role of a father figure, a bit more eccentric than her own.

As she sits by the light of the flickering fireplace, legs tucked beneath her and a warm bowl of stew in her hands, she smiles at the others. Keith takes a seat next to her, an expression on his face that’s not quite a smile but not brooding either. The proximity to him makes her heart flutter, and she sinks against the wall.

It feels like home.

“Keith, can I talk to you?” Allura’s words tear Pidge from her reverie. The ex-Princess extends a dainty hand for him to take, sending a questioning glance towards Pidge.

“Sure, have all the moments you’d like.” The bitter tone to her voice is difficult to hide, even with all of her courtly training, and her amber eyes trail after the pair longingly.

Time moves slow, like the honey and molasses from the kitchens. The sound of hoofbeats draws her attention to the front door as Galra soldiers enter, slamming open the door. Their weapons are sheathed, poorly-maintained swords in dilapidated scabbards.

“Where’s Keith?” one of them inquires, gruff voice echoing in the tavern. “Rumor says he’s here.”

Pidge stands up, lowering her now-empty bowl to a table. “Who’s that you’re talkin’ about?” She asks. She’s got the look of a tavern-owner’s kid, and she folds her arms over her chest. “Ain’t heard of no Keith.”

The second one pipes up, “Tall-ish, light eyes and skin, dark hair. Former knight for the Galra Kingdom.”

Galra soldier? She closes her eyes for a split-second, unable to imagine her protector as a Galra soldier. She faces them with a look as though she’d been thinking about it. “Don’t know anyone like that,” she says, “Mostly got village folk and wayward travelers.” Somehow, these lies steeped in truth roll off her tongue like the tales of old she’d learned as a babe. “Everyone seems to move westward.”

The soldier flips her a silver coin, as though she’s given away valuable information. “Thanks, brat.”

A few minutes later, they’re gone, a cloud of dust billowing behind them. The cold metal feels like it’s seeping the life from her skin, and every gut instinct tells her to get out of there.

Pidge runs to the second floor, where they keep their still-packed traveler’s packs. She hoists hers over her shoulders, and carries Keith’s in both hands. Her feet lead her, even though her mind buzzes with questions. She interrupts the hushed argument between Allura and Keith, slamming his pack into his side.

“We’re going.”

“Pidge, I’m talking.”

“Now.” The steely tone covers her fear. They may be looking for him, but how long until she’s discovered as well? She’s spent to long waiting, not searching. Pidge turns to Allura, dipping into a curtsy despite her still boyish appearance. “Sorry, my lady. We’ve brought trouble to your doorstep.”

“What? How?”

Pidge meets her eyes, apologetic. “Katherine Holt, my lady. I am sorry for deceiving you, but after my father and brother…”

“I understand.”

“We still ought to go. If and when you wish to fight the Galra, please know you have my family’s support.”

Realization dawns on the former Princess’ face as she replies, “Be safe. But remember, you always have a home with us.”

*

They travel to the Kerberos Coast, the Eastern edge of the Galra Kingdom, far from the central forces. The sea breeze there fills the winter air with salt, a welcome change from the blustery winds that buffeted against their faces until their cheeks were raw. Their arrival marks two years since her brother and father were last seen, when their ship left the harbor to never be seen again.

She takes a seat on the rocky shoreline, amber eyes scanning the gray horizon. Her hands press against the deep obsidian stone, the cold leeching her body heat away. A shiver crawls down her spine, but she doesn’t move, imagining that her family is back around her, their arms enveloping her small frame.

She misses them so much.

There’s a hand on her shoulder, this time not a lingering memory, and it draws her back to reality. She stares up at the source, the pang in her heart a result of the storm in his eyes. “Why are we running, Pidge?” Keith’s weary voice tugs at both her heartstrings and curiosity.

Now-calloused but still-dainty fingers curl around his, giving his hand a squeeze. “You know why I left home. Why are you being hunted by the Galra?”

He tenses, and she raises her other hand, drawing him down to sit beside her. “You shouldn’t know.”

“Keith,” she insists, “You know my secrets. You helped me fight in a way that I’m not a hapless damsel. But _you_ are the one with soldiers who want to slit your throat.” She glances down to her own arm, where she’d barely managed to escape with just a small scratch.

He doesn’t look at her as he speaks, eyes as cloudy as the gray sky. “I fought Zarkon in hand-to-hand combat. And I lived.” There’s more to his story, a reticence to his words. But she knows better than to press for an answer.

Standing up to see him, she squeezes his hand, “I’m thankful you lived.”

“I _was_ a Galra soldier. I fought with the same sentiments as the soldiers who _ruin_ lives.”

“But you don’t anymore.” She twists around to face him until she’s kneeling, back towards the stormy coast. _You wouldn’t anymore,_ she wants to say.

“That doesn’t change my past.”

She cups his face with her free hand, tilting his head until he’s meeting her eyes. “Perhaps not,” she admits, “but it speaks volumes of your future.”

A silence falls between them, and the look of surprise on his face mingles with something softer, one that she has only seen a handful of times. He swallows before speaking, “You sounded like a real lady right there.”

Her face flushes, and she ducks her head until long wisps of hair hide the warmth on her cheeks. “Thank you.”

*

She’s never enjoyed carriages, but traveling in one would be preferable to the situation she’s in right now. The chains on her wrists dig into her skin, the metal still cold from the last lingering frosts. Her light cloak did little to chase away the morning cold from the springtime change. The horses pick up pace, sending her stumbling forward.

Keith catches and steadies her; the chains clink together as they find their footing again.

“I hate them,” Pidge whispers.

“Quiet, brat!” One of the soldiers throws a rock at her head, and she dodges the stone as it whizzes past her face. “Quit your yammering.”

She closes her eyes, hands curling into fists. The weight of her blades press against her side. If only she weren’t handcuffed, she would take the steel to the Galra in a heartbeat. Her search for truth led them further into the heart of Zarkon’s kingdom, and traveling at night was their primary means of disguise. The one and only time they made an appearance during the day, they were immediately shackled and deemed worthy of being sold as household servants to the royals.

At the very least, they haven’t discovered her identity. She shudders with a thought of what the soldiers would do to her. Still, having her true name was an upper hand.

“You alright?” Keith whispers, his voice barely audible among the hoofbeats and riotous laughter of soldiers.

“I’m fine,” she groans. “I’m exhausted though.”

“We’ve been walking non-stop since sundown. They should be resting soon.” His eyes flash with an anger, a rage that she hasn’t seen in months. “It’s our chance.”

She meets his gaze with a nod; the unspoken _to run_ draws a brief smile across her features. Stumbling again, her foot catches on an overgrown tree root. Keith catches her again, and this time his hands linger around her shoulders. Without realizing, she presses up into his hands, not wanting him to let go.

The group of soldiers slows as the sun reaches a peak in the sky. They call the group to rest, tossing a weather-worn blanket at the two of them. “Rest up, prisoners. We’re heading out in five hours,” one of the soldiers calls out.

“C’mon Pidge,” Keith says, drawing her over towards what appears to be a nest of pine needles and broken twigs.

The crunch of pine needles and wood, intertwined with the smell of sap, reminds her of the old pine tree in her family’s garden. She misses her childhood home, but wouldn’t trade this experience for the world. After all, she could easily trade herself for Keith if the plan to escape fails, although she doubts he would ever let her.

They fiddle with the locks, the cold making the internal gears brittle, and it takes them the better part of an hour, but they’re finally free. Pidge presses a finger to her lips, but Keith is already gone, skulking about the camp and dodging sleeping Galra soldiers. He makes it to the saddle bags where their clothes are, and steals back their things in one swift movement.

He's like a cat, she muses, watching his lithe and graceful movements. As much as she loves the concept that he’s her knight, a strong and tall man protecting her, she likes this side of him best. The grin on his face as he returns her bag is almost worth the pounding heartbeat that echoes her intertwined fear and excitement of leaving.

“They’re escaping!” One of the soldiers shouts, waking up from his rest. “Get them!”

“Run?” Pidge questions, trusting his decision.

“I’d rather fight,” Keith replies, drawing his sword. “Stay behind me.”

“Aw, is the former knight protecting a peasant boy now?” A second soldier goads, “You must be mad, confusing a peasant for a princess.”

Pidge laughs, a short bark that echoes in the still early springtime air. “Oh, if only you knew.” Dropping her bag to the ground, she draws her daggers from hidden folds in her clothes, one in each hand. “I’m pretty sure you’re the mad one.”

The soldiers begin to circle the duo, weapons raised menacingly. Pidge takes in the environment as she presses her back to Keith’s, noting the places where she can use her petite frame to her advantage. One lunges towards Keith, and he steps forward, the clang of metal against metal spurring the adrenaline rush of a proper fight.

“Go loose, Pidge!”

She does, dodging and weaving like a blade dancer as she utilizes her petite and lithe frame to her benefit. The young woman lands blow after blow, disabling them with precision attacks.

They stand victorious; beaten and bruised, but not splayed on the ground. The dull pain from a poorly dodged blade begins to make its way to the forefront of her mind, and she winces in pain. Still, she’s not the one with a bleeding cut on their cheek. She drops to her knees, ignoring the feel of pine needles pricking through her trousers.  

“We’re alive,” Keith says in disbelief. The relieved smile on his face leaves her heart fluttering.

She swallows the girlish squeak that threatens to escape. “I suppose we are.” She can tell that the last blow she took, a kick to her torso, will leave a bruise blossoming on her pale skin for the next several days, possibly weeks. She trains her gaze on Keith, ushering him to sit near her. “C’mon, let’s patch you up.”

“You first,” he insists, but Pidge refuses. She doesn’t feel as injured as what she can see. And she wouldn’t forgive herself if anything were to happen to him.

It’s slow work, checking for wounds despite her exhaustion. As she trails her hands around, hovering just above his skin, she sees him draw away with the insistence that he’s fine. The pain on his face as she wipes away blood from his face and puts pressure on certain parts of his body tells her the truth. She lets her hands linger as she wraps cloth around his torso, grateful to be close to him.

Her own vision swims as she eases herself into a sitting position, finally examining her own body. The soreness from a second wound on her torso leaves her mind swimming and she slumps against Keith, head falling into the crook of his shoulder. A pink hue crosses her face as she inquires through her haze, “Can you treat my wounds?” He stammers out a positive response as her vision fades to black.

She’s not quite sure if the feeling of his lips against her forehead is a hallucination. She rather likes the thought that it is.

*

The southernmost port city of the kingdom, a hub for trade and rebellion, welcomes them with busy streets and the promise of finding her family. Her now shoulder-length hair no longer aids in hiding her gender, and she’s since exchanged her outfit for that of a normal village woman. Walking forward, she stays at Keith’s side with her head held high, taking his arm as they walk.

They pass through the streets, searching for the rebel headquarters. The inns and less-than-tasteful shops draw her attention; those would be prime locations, but don’t appear to host suspicion. Galra soldiers meander the twisting roads with their swords and spears glinting in the summer sun. It feels strange. After all, the last time she had set foot in a city was the night she escaped from her house, avoiding the Galra soldiers. She flinches at the memory—how has it already been nearly a year?

“Hey,” Keith says, drawing her nearer as they move from earshot of the guards. “We’re going to find them.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” she replies, squeezing his hand in hers. “What if it doesn’t change anything?”

“Then we keep searching.”

“No,” she says, stopping mid-stride. “What if finding them does nothing? This war will never end.” They’re in front of a tavern, and the bustle of everyday life pays no attention to

He tilts her chin up until they’re face-to-face. “I won’t stop fighting.”

The sensation of her heart soaring is something out of a romantic ballad, and the intensity of his gaze sends her heartbeat rushing. “Neither will I.”

He clears his throat as he moves his hand to caress the side of her face, “I won’t stop fighting _for you_.”

She freezes, tongue leaden as she tries to respond. The feeling that’s been in the pit of her stomach for months blossoms; he feels the same way. Sinking into the sensation of his hand on her skin, she grins. “And I’ll be right there with you. After all, you still need to return me to my mother.”

“What do you think I should ask for?” The teasing lilt to his voice is something she rarely hears, and it sends her heart fluttering again.

“Oh, I don’t know. There’s a lot of things.” She loops her arm through his once more, and tugs him forward. Remembering their early interactions, she says, “There’s money, land, jewels, legendary weapons…” She trails off her voice with a wave of her hand, hoping that he would have an answer of his own.

“What about… you?” It’s blunt, a little uncouth, and altogether everything she’s come to love about him.

“I don’t know,” she teases, “You’d have to be willing to accept a runaway lady who prefers fighting to stitching.”

“Already done. You’d have to be willing to accept a sell-sword with a bounty on his head.”

“You mean a knight with a heart of gold who protected me during the adventure of a lifetime?”

“That sounds like something from those romantic songs.”

“You’re still better than the knights from those.”

They turn the corner onto the main street of the city, where the people swarm the open-air markets, and vendors shout their sales into the springtime air. The smell of bread and food wafts into the air, mingling with the scent of leather armor from a nearby stall. Out of the corner of her vision, she sees a figure duck into an alleyway and vanish into a secluded door.

She tilts her head in the direction, and Keith nods before leading her towards the alley. It takes a minute, weaving around the city-folk and vendors, before they emerge where the person had been before. The gray wooden doorway seems inconspicuous, but the symbol of the rebellion, five lions, is inscribed along the frame.

“This is it,” Pidge breathes out, “We’re here.” She places a hand against the door, taking a deep breath.

“Together?” he asks, placing his arm around her shoulders.

“Together.”


End file.
